


Arcana: The Spreading of the Cards

by thievinghippo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories, prompt fics and drabbles across the Dragon Age Series. Who knows what the cards will say?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blackwall/Lavellan: Peace

In the end, Thom’s glad the rumors are wrong.

Whispers were heard among the guards that the Inquisition might step in, might use its influence to free him. Almost everyone expected the Herald to make an attempt to save her lover.

But they don’t know his lady, not like he does.

She believes in _justice_. How many hours had they talked in quiet voices, shaping the perfect Thedas if only in their own minds? She must think him quite the hypocrite, how pleased he was when she netted out harsh judgements to those who deserved them, when he had escaped justice himself for so long.

Or maybe she doesn’t think of him at all. She was so quick to leave the prison, barely even able to look at him. And her last words to him… _I never loved you._

She never once spoke the words out loud, it's true. But as he told her once, _It_ _’s what you do and how you do it that matters._ And he always thought… with her actions… But perhaps it was just an old man’s dream.

The rope is tight around his wrists and the guard prods his shoulder, instructing him to move. The door from the prison opens and Thom has to squint in the harsh sunlight, not having been outside for more than a week.

The crowd lines up on either side of the cobblestone road leading to the gallows, like they’re waiting for a parade. Perhaps they are. The moment Thom’s in sight, the jeers and boos begin. After the quiet of the prison, the sounds are maddeningly loud. If his hands weren’t bound, he’d cover his ears.

He wears prison garb, a thin tunic and ragged pants, barely able to keep out the chill. Looking ahead, he sees the gallows, the hangman’s noose waiting, ready to end his life. He never before thought of the gallows as a respite, but he is so _fucking tired._

It’s while he’s looking ahead when he’s first struck with crumpled paper. Next a ruined vegetable. The guards do nothing, say nothing, as they walk. Thom tries to ignore the people spitting at this feet and doesn’t flinch when a rock hits him in the temple, hard enough to draw blood.

The people of Orlais always did like a good execution.

His footing doesn’t waver as his guards push him up the stairs to the platform. Thom knows his life will be over in minutes and tries to reflect, tries to think of something he touched where he didn’t fuck up, and as they put the noose around his neck, he draws a blank.

He sees her then, towards the back of the crowd, feet bare, wearing a simple dress instead of the Dalish armor she's known for. A hooded cloak might keep others from noticing her, but Thom would recognize his lady anywhere, the way her lips curved into a slight pout and the _vallaslin_ decorating her throat. How many times had he traced those lines with the tip of his tongue over the past year?

He can think of no good reason why she is here, and perhaps it doesn’t matter. That she is, is enough.

The guards help him step onto a stool, the crowd growing louder, but Thom’s blocked it all out. The only thing in his world is _her,_ how she brings a delicate hand to cover her mouth before wiping away the tears trickling down her cheeks.

The noose tightens and Thom knows he should close his eyes, whispering a prayer to Andraste, asking for salvation. Instead he stares at Her Herald, who is crying. Crying tears for him, tears he doesn’t deserve, and he want her to be the last thing he sees in this world.

She stares right back at him and mouths a few words. The words change everything and he feels a sense of inevitability and peace spread through his body, through his marrow and bones and blood.

And as the guard kicks the stool from under him, Thom goes to the Fade for the last time with a rock hard certainty settling deep in his chest.

_He is loved._


	2. Solas/Lavellan: Tarantism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.

“Did you ever do this?” Raelin asked, watching the procession of young men and women considered to come of age this Summerday march through the Courtyard. They all wore white, pretty spring dresses or plain tunics, looking so bright and impossibly young.

She stood on the raised stairs to the Keep, standing next to Cassandra, soon to be Divine Victoria, who would lead the group in prayer before Mother Giselle spoke to the girls and Chancellor Benedict spoke to the boys. Then the festival would begin, loosely based on the Grand Tourney of the Free Marches.

Josephine had worked tirelessly for weeks to put everything together, convincing Raelin she could celebrate their victory over Corypheus in no finer fashion. Though now that the day arrived, Raelin wasn’t quite so sure, painfully aware of the empty space on her left side, which should be where Solas stood. But no matter, she had other things to worry about, such as the fact rumors had already started that she had finally accepted the will of the Marker into her heart. With no  _vallaslin_  and now allowing the religious aspect of the festival, people had started to talk.

Her faith in the Elven Gods hadn’t faltered, how could they when Morrigan was bound to no less than Mythal, herself?

“I did,” Cassandra said. “Before I became a Seeker. I donned a white dress and listened to a Chantry Mother tell me how to live my life.”

“Did you heed her?”

Cassandra let out a small snort. “Of course not. I had too many other things to do.”

Raelin pressed her toes into the cool, stone floor, glad she decided to be barefoot for the event, wearing only a simple green dress. Josephine picked it out, of course, but the ambassador seemed to realize what Raelin would want in a dress: loose sleeves, a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt down to her ankles. Vivienne warned her to expect people copying the dress throughout Thedas in the coming months and the thought always made her laugh. To think she might be considered a beacon of fashion!

The procession stopped at the bottom of the stairs and Cassandra started speaking. Raelin watched on, looking at the faces of young men and women. Mainly human, but she noticed a few sets of pointed ears and several dwarves as well. Clasping her hands behind her back, she listened to Cassandra’s words, telling them to respect each other and how actions were what mattered at the end of the day.

Then they were led away, ready to become mend and women in the eyes of the Chantry. Raelin thought of the Dalish customs, how she became a woman when they gave her  _vallaslin_  and had to keep herself from bringing her fingers to her forehead to trace the markings that used to be there. But she pushed the thoughts away and straightened her shoulders. Josephine said she should consider herself a hostess today. And a good hostess wouldn’t cry over a lost love.

The festival started almost at once then, and it was - as Blackwall told her some time ago - a spectacle. Raelin played her part well, smiling and tasting bits of food and small sips of wine. She gave no blessings - she never had as it never felt her right - and instead told person after person they would be in her thoughts.

And then the dancing started.

Her heart clenched, even though the energetic dancing was nothing like the graceful moves she shared with Solas at the Winter Palace. Content to simply watch, Raelin sat next to Cole, who seemed enraptured by the movement. “Have you ever danced, Cole?” she asked, sure she knew the answer already.

“No,” he said.

Raelin thought back to nights back with her clan, when chores were done for the day and someone would pick up an instrument and people would get up and dance. And before she knew it, her foot tapped along with the beat of the music. A moment later, Blackwall stepped up to her, his hand out. “Care for a dance, my lady.”

She didn’t particularly want to dance, but Blackwall would be leaving for the Wardens soon and it seemed cruel to deny his simple request, especially when she heard whispers from other Wardens in Skyhold that they didn’t expect him to survive the Joining because of his age. “Thank you,” Raelin said, standing up and placing her hand in his.

The music picked up speed and Raelin wanted to panic, not quite knowing the steps. But she needn’t have worried. Blackwall clearly knew the dance and with his steady hand on her waist, guided her to exactly where she needed to be. And before long, Raelin found herself getting caught up in the music and even letting out a laugh as Blackwall picked her up and swung her around.

She felt breathless once the dance was over  and motioned to Blackwall she needed a moment. They walked back over to Cole and Raelin saw Josephine standing next to him, her eyes on Blackwall. Raelin concentrated, knowing Cole could hear her more often than not these days, though she didn’t like to think of what that meant, when he could only hear those who needed him.

Another song started, slower this time and Cole said, “I would like to dance.”

“Of course,” Raelin said, holding out her hand.

Next to her, Blackwall turned to Josephine. “My lady?”

Josephine made no response, simply putting her hand in Blackwall’s as they walked to the dancing area.

Cole seemed content to start dancing right where they were, not bothering to move. So Raelin put both of her hands in his and they started twirling around in a circle, neither one of them even pretending to know the steps belonging to the music. Glancing out on the dance floor, the movements seemed complicated, but both Blackwall and Josephine looked confident in their steps. Perhaps it was cruel to push the two of them together for a dance when they’d be parted soon. But if Raelin had learned anything thanks to her romance with Solas, it was to grab happiness when you can.

But then she decided to stop thinking. Especially about him. Not to when the grass felt soft beneath her feet, the wind and dancing sure to mess up her hair and she had no doubt people would laugh at how silly the Inquisitor looked dancing in a circle by herself, for none of them would remember Cole.

It was liberating.

Once the music stopped, Raelin laughed, feeling lighter than she had in some time.

“You’re quieter now,” Cole said.

“I am.”

“Would you like to dance again?”

Raelin didn’t bother to answer and instead they simply started twirling around once again. 


	3. Dorian/Inquisitor: Say that Again

“Say that again?” **  
**

Eldrien laughs at the seriousness in Dorian’s voice. “I do believe you heard me correctly the first time.”

Dorian pounces so quickly that Eldrien has no time to defend himself, not that he would want to, not when they’re both naked in bed. “You take that back, amatus. Right now.”

He’s flat on his back now, with Dorian holding down his wrists. The grip is loose, giving Eldrien the easy option to escape. But where’s the fun in that? “Never,” Eldrien says dramatically. “You have bed head, love, you might as well accept it.”

“If I had access to a mirror, I’m sure I would be perfectly coiffed,” Dorian says. “I accept no less from my hair follicles.”  

Eldrien looks up and grins. Dorian’s hair is a mess, along with slightly swollen lips and a small bruise forming on the side of his neck. He’s an absolutely beautiful sight to wake up to.

“But if you’re speaking the truth…” Dorian says, causing Eldrien to shiver as hands slide up his arms. “You better make it worth it.”

Eldrien takes the chance to break Dorian’s grip, before pulling him in close for a kiss. “That I can do.”


	4. Josephine/Cassandra: A Confession

Helping Cassandra dress for battle is akin to a prayer, Josephine decides.

She hands Cassandra her heavy leather boots, hoping they will be sturdy under her feet. Josephine helps with the buckles on her breastplate, tracing the small etched hearts on the cool metal. The hearts are hardly noticeable; from a distance they could be any sort of design.

But if the Seeker lets you in close enough, they are a surprise, a cause to smile. Much like Cassandra herself.

Never has Cassandra left for battle directly from Skyhold before. But Corypheus attacked the Temple of Sacred Ashes once again, and the Inquisitor will lead the inner circle to battle.

Cassandra sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes closed. No doubt her lover is asking the Maker for guidance. Watching her pray always takes Josephine’s breath away. So she gets up on the bed behind Cassandra, and gently kisses the back of her neck. I’m afraid, she whispers against soft skin, knowing there is nothing more she can do but hand Cassandra her gauntlets.

A few whispered words, and Cassandra is gone, leaving Josephine nothing to do but pray.


	5. Cassandra, Heat

Even the setting sun didn’t bring any sort of relief.

Cassandra had waited, watching the sun dip behind the mountains of the Western Approach, hoping to feel a cool desert breeze brush her cheek. Instead, it was the same dry arid heat as earlier in the day.

At least it was dark now.

After learning of the Warden’s ritual and running off Erimond, it was decided to make camp for the night. Hawke had asked to stay with the group overnight, while Loghain left on his own journey right away. Cassandra had found herself disappointed, hoping to discuss tactics and swordsmanship with the former Teryn.

She rolled her shoulders, glad she had taken off her chestpiece for the night. The camp was quiet after dinner. The Inquisitor sat crossed-legged in front of the fire, writing something,  while Sera made faces at her, most likely trying to get the dwarf to laugh.

Bull and Hawke were talking softly to each other as they tended their gear. Cassandra wanted to say something to Hawke, let the woman know just how much she admired her, but it seemed… inappropriate somehow.

Well, they would be sharing a tent tonight, so perhaps Cassandra would be able to find the words later in the evening. Maker knew if she’d be able to sleep tonight with this heat.

“Come on, Inky, time for bed,” Sera said in a sing-song voice. She jumped up and took the writing desk off of the Inquisitor’s lap.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. Thankfully, the pair set their tent far from the other two, so hopefully she would not have to hear them tonight. It’s not that she disapproved of the relationship, per say. She simply would have hoped the Inquisitor might have a touch more discretion.

“I think I’ll turn in for the night, too,” Bull said with a yawn. With his size, he practically took up an entire tent himself. Cassandra watched him stand, twisting at the waist a few times. “See you in the morning.”

“Not a bad idea, really,” Hawke said, stretching her arms behind her back. “Suppose it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to get an early start tomorrow.”

Cassandra nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. In the distance, she heard the Inquisitor shriek before giggling loudly.

Hawke laughed. “Suppose they’ll be having fun tonight.”

“It depends on your definition of fun,” Cassandra said with a snort.

“Right,” Hawke said, tilting her head, giving Cassandra the impression she was being studied. Thoroughly. “Well, good night, Seeker.”

Cassandra raised her hand to wave, but Hawke had already turned around, heading to the tent. Bringing her hand to her chest, Cassandra sighed, watching Hawke walk away. She would give the mage a few minutes to settle down before going into the tent herself.

Once her sword and shield was stored, Cassandra let herself into the tent. Hawke lay on top of her bedroll on her stomach, slowly kicking her feet. As quickly as she could, Cassandra took off her outer coat, leaving her in her padded leather trousers and an undershirt.

In this heat, she had no desire to climb into the bedroll itself. Instead she lay on top like Hawke, but on her side, her back towards the Champion. Hopefully it would not be considered rude.

Cassandra tried to think of something to say before she fell asleep, but nothing good came to mind. Just as she decided to simply close her eyes, Hawke asked, “Have you been with the Iron Bull?”

She turned onto her back, blinking rapidly. “No, no, of course not,” Cassandra stuttered, trying to gain her composure. She didn’t think she would ever get used to people simply talking about sex easily.

“No?” Hawke asked, and Cassandra heard a pout in her voice. “I’ve never been with a qunari before.”

“I… I know of several who have been with him,” Cassandra offered, not quite willing to meet Hawke’s eye. “I’ve heard his stamina is impressive.”

Hawke sat up, looking in the direction of Bull’s tent. “Oh really?” she asked, running a finger back and forth over her lower lip. “Fuck it. We only live once, right?”

With a smile, one Varric once had described to Cassandra as _captivating_ , Hawke jumped to her feet and left the tent.

Cassandra’s body deflated. There went any chance to speak to Hawke, one on one.

Her eyes closed, and she willed herself to fall asleep quickly. She kept her breathing even, and started slowly counting backwards from one hundred in her head.

At ninety-one, she heard Hawke and Bull talking in low voices. Not that she could understand a single word, but their tone was enough to know _exactly_ what would be going on.

The tents were far too close together. But no matter. She would fall asleep before she heard anything else.

At seventy-eight, Hawke moaned.

At forty-four, Cassandra heard the distinct sound of two bodies slapping together.

At thirty-two, Cassandra realized her hand had slid down her trousers and there was no point to counting any longer. As quickly as she could, which considering her fingers were stroking the hair between her thighs, was not quick at all, she covered up in the bedroll.

She tried to shut out the sound of Bull and Hawke being intimate; neither one of them was loud, but just the fact that Cassandra _knew_ what they were doing made touching herself more awkward than it should be.

And release would be welcome tonight. Especially with the stress of the journey, not to mention she had forgotten to pack her favorite chapter of _Swords and Shields_. How could she have left that back at Skyhold?

As she spread her folds, Cassandra let her mind linger on the Knight Captain, how strong she was to deal with all the adversity thrown her way. The woman always rose to the occasion, always managed to come out on top.

Cassandra could _desperately_ use some of that magic for herself. Arching her back slightly, she started pressing down on her nub with a little more force, all thoughts of the other tent gone.

At least the Knight-Captain wore sensible armor, unlike so many of the heroines in the stories she read. Beautiful platemail, the type Cassandra loved to look at, but not wear. She preferred to have a bit more mobility.

She had to cover her mouth to hold back a gasp. Once contained, Cassandra pushed her hair off of her forehead, sweat from the heat and her pleasure, mixed in. If the Knight Captain had any flaw, it was her hair. Why she let her locks flow instead of putting it back in a sensible bun was beyond her.

But the way the Knight Captain’s hair was described! Like a beautiful sunset on a cloudy day. Cassandra could almost imagine herself running her hands through the Knight Captain’s thick hair, rubbing her shoulders after a tough battle, telling the woman just how strong she was, how fierce…

Her climax was unexpected, causing Cassandra to bite down on her lower lip to keep herself from moaning. Raising her hips, she tried to prolong her pleasure as long as possible, wanting to enjoy every last moment.

When she finished, she brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them clean, letting the taste linger on her tongue. It was not often Cassandra had a chance to touch herself in the field like this, and she already knew tomorrow she would feel more relaxed and alert as they made their way back to Skyhold.

If Hawke came back into the tent before Cassandra fell asleep, somehow she would have to figure out a way to thank the Champion for the time alone.

Now if only Varric would finish the last chapter of _Swords and Shields_!


	6. Dorian/Inquisitor: You Don't Want Me

“Oh, you don’t want me,” Dorian said, looking slightly bleary eyed. “Not after the cook put such an appalling amount of garlic in the roast.”

Eldrien took a sip from his glass of wine. Around them the tavern was crowded, thanks to the promise of new songs from Maryden. Crowded enough that he and Dorian stood in a corner instead of a table. “Are you actually turning me down?” Eldrien asked, not sure whether to be amused or hurt.

They had been drinking for several hours now, and Eldrien was more than ready to move their evening away from the tavern into his bedroom. Dorian, however, seemed to have different ideas.

“The spirit is willing, amatus, but the flesh…” Dorian paused, and Eldrien his arm around his lover’s waist for support. “The flesh, sadly, is weak.”

“Which I’m sure has never happened before,” Eldrien said with a chuckle. Any lingering hurt vanished. “Not to the great Dorian Pavus.”

With a wave of his hand, Dorian said, “You’ll never find proof otherwise.” Eldrien smiled as Dorian’s fingers intertwined with his own. “Though perhaps a darkened room and a bit of rest would do wonders for the libido.”

“And the garlic?” Eldrien asked as they headed towards the tavern’s exit.

“Surely a kiss from me is worth a bit of spice?”

Eldrien took Dorian’s hand in his as they walked into the courtyard, and the cool mountain air. “Only from you, love. Only from you.”


	7. Leliana/Warden: You Look Really Tired

“You look really tired,” Leliana says, cursing the words even as they come out of her mouth. Are these her social skills now? Leave her in the Chantry for who knows how long and suddenly she becomes the type of woman to tell another woman the obvious. “Are you not sleeping well?”

Nova raises her chin, but doesn’t look up. Oh no, Nova never looks up. Not when the sun is up, at least. Only when darkness is settled around the camp. It’s one of those little facts Leliana has burrowed away for another time. Like the way Nova’s fingers deftly braid her hair, without help from her reflection. Or how Leliana once saw her pull up a handful of grass when she thought no one was watching and chewed on the blades.

“I’m just not used to…” She waves her hand, clearly meaning the sky or open spaces. “All of this.”

“You sleep in a tent, though” Leliana says, handing the dwarf a tin cup of coffee. “I would think that is close to being underground.”

Nova yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’d rather have rock above my head than a thin piece of cloth,” Nova says before taking a sip of coffee. She pauses, then takes another sip, a genuine smile on her face. “I think this is the best cup of coffee I’ve had since I’ve been topside.”

Leliana keeps her face still, not wanting to give anything away. Their conversation last night about dwarven food gave her an idea to try this morning. And earlier, when she had Nova’s cup of coffee in her hands, she scooped up the slightest bit of dirt, and let it settle in the brew. After hearing all about moss and lichen, Leliana wondered if a bit of earth might taste like home.

“I think Morrigan made the coffee this morning,” Leliana says, leaning forward. “Should we ask if she can make breakfast every day?”

She winks at Nova, who lets out a laugh, one of the first real laughs Leliana’s heard from her since they’ve met. It’s a laugh she could so easily get lost in, and Leliana reminds herself that the former princess needs time to adjust to the world away from Orzammar. Best to be there for her as support for now.

Nova takes another sip, pushing a braid behind her ear, her cheeks flush from either the coffee or the cold morning air. And Leliana decides right then and there to be waiting once Nova is ready.


	8. Isabela/Hawke: Don't be Rude

“Don’t be fucking rude to the nice man, Isabela,” Hawke says, ignoring how her words are just the slightest bit slurred. Oh how she did enjoy teasing her lover. “All he did was offer you a drink.”

“A drink,” Isabela asks, eyes lighting up just enough so Hawke knows she’s in on this little game. “He might as well be asking me to take off my clothes.”

The young man flanking Isabela turns red, enough so Hawke almost feels sorry for him. He’s practically a child with barely any stubble on his chin. He might even be younger than Carver. But Hawke’s not nearly sorry enough to stop. She and Isabela need some way to keep from boredom on a cold, wintery Kirkwall night, don’t they?

“I would never, ma’am…” The young man stutters and Hawke needs to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing.

“Did you just call me ‘ma’am?” Isabela asks, her voice like ice.

The man’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Miss, I mean. Miss. It was just… A drink. That’s all I-”

Hawke decides to take the tiniest amount of pity on the gentlemen. “There’s a problem with your logic, dear Bela,” she says before taking a sip of her whiskey. “In order to take off one’s clothes, one does need to actually be wearing clothes.”

Isabela’s outrage almost looks real. “Ser Hawke,” she says, placing her hands on her chest. At Hawke’s name, the man’s eyes grow wide in recognition. “I am shocked. Shocked and appalled you would speak to me in such a manner.”

“I’ll talk to you in any which way I please,” Hawke says, standing up. She doesn’t stumble in the slightest, and is extraordinarily pleased with that fact.

The young man takes this opportunity to practically sprint towards his table, full of dock workers. No doubt they gave him a dare or made a bet. In nicer weather, Hawke might take a few minutes and stew about it. Maybe try to embarrass the entire table. Maker knows, she and Isabela could if they wanted.

However, in this cold, she’s suddenly far more interested in snuggling under the covers.

“And which way would that be?” Isabela says slowly, placing a hand on Hawke’s hip.

“Preferably dirty and in-between your legs,” Hawke says just loud enough so only her lover can hear.

Isabela’s smile is slow and full of promise. She turns and starts to walk towards her room, her hips swaying a bit more than usual.

“You haven’t paid for the drinks yet,” Corff calls out after her.

Isabela turns and winks. “Put it on Hawke’s tab,” she says. “Apparently I need to save my gold for clothes.”


	9. Zevran/Warden: I'm not wearing that

“I’m not wearing that,” Denravi says, raising her chin.

Back at the alienage, there were elves who would slip past the walls and work in the brothels as a way to earn much needed coin for their families. More than once, Denravi was tempted to join them.

Almost a year before her should be wedding day, Denravi snuck out of the alienage, and found her way into a brothel herself, wanting to know more. What struck her was that almost all the women wore lace panties or negligees or hardly anything at all.

Denravi runs her hands over the delicate fabric. “I appreciate the gesture, Zevran-”

“Who said anything about these being for you?” Zevran asks with a laugh, taking the pair of silk panties from her hands. “Maybe I bought these for me, no? You’ve spoiled me so, with your gifts, love. Maybe it’s time that I spoil myself?”

She smiles, a smile that only seems to appear when Zevran is patient enough to coax one out of her. Laying back on her sleeping roll, she says, “I’m not sure pink is your color.”

“We’ll never know unless we try, will we?” Zevran says, already unbuttoning his trousers.

Denravi takes the panties from his hands. The pink might actually work with his coloring. “If it’s not, we simply take them off.”               

Zevran’s face lights up, as if she’s just handed him the moons. “And this, my love, is why you’re our leader here. You always have a plan.”


	10. Cassandra/male Cadash: You Can Trust Me

“You can trust me,” Fredgar say, and Cassandra is surprised to hear a bit of indignation in his voice. “Why would I lie about that?”

A dozen answers cross her mind, almost all unkind. It’s not fair of her, she knows this. But even after a few days in Haven, she still tends to think of him as a member of the Carta, as opposed to a full-fledged member of the Inquisition.

“So you truly are here for services?” Cassandra asks, crossing her arms over her chest as she looks down at the dwarf. He’s tolerably good-looking, she decides after a moment. No doubt Josephine will want to use that to the Inquisition’s favor.

“I’ve been going to Chantry Services every week since I was a kid,” Fredgar says, and there’s a patience to his voice that makes Cassandra feel unkind. “When I was sixteen, I even donned a white tunic and paraded around Ostagar on Summerday.”

She catches herself before she asks if dwarves were even allowed to do that. While it’s rare, dwarves and elves choose to join the Chantry. Cassandra just has never met one who has before.

“What sort of lecture did you have?” she asks instead, remembering her own Summerday dress, and how she hated how the lace itched her skin.

Fredgar smiles, the type of grin that Cassandra finds herself wanting to return. “Ostagar is a bit different, you see. They separated the girls and boys after the processional. And Seeker, I was sworn to take the secrets of those talks to the ashes.”

“Scandalous,” Cassandra says, trying to sound serious, but not minding that she fails. “Well, it sounds much more interesting than my Summerday talk. I believe the Mother fell asleep by the end.”

“Well, any lack of guidance on the Chantry’s part certainly hasn’t seemed to affected you in the slightest, madam,” Fredgar says with a slight bow. “So does this mean you don’t mind if I go to service today?”

Cassandra stills. Did he? Was that? She isn’t quite sure what to think. Did this Carta dwarf just _flirt_ with her?

“All are welcome to service,” she answers stiffly. “I will be glad to have you there.”

They enter Haven’s Chantry. During the week, the chairs are cleared out, giving everyone plenty of room to move. But today, the first service since the Breach, there are chairs, stools, and benches lined up. The Chantry is crowded; Cassandra can’t even see a free seat, but people quickly make room for the Herald and herself.

She has no choice but to sit next to him, so she does. The tight fit causes their shoulders to brush together. Folding her hands in her lap, Cassandra waits for Mother Giselle to start the service.

When the good Mother does, Cassandra glances over at Fredgar. His eyes are closed as he mouths along with the familiar words of the Chant. There’s a look of peace on his face that makes her heart glad.

So Cassandra closes her own eyes, pleased to know that the Herald’s serenity will be reflected on her own face soon as well.


	11. Varric/Inquisitor: Don't be an Ass

“Don’t be an ass,” Marta said, trying to sound serious. By the slow spreading grin on Varric’ face, though, she knew she had utterly and completely failed.

“Madam,” Varric said, placing his hand on his chest. “You wound me to the core.”

Marta let out a laugh, flopping back onto the pile of pillows on her bed. Her human sized bed, meaning she and Varric had plenty of room. “Then stop being an ass,” she said pointedly. “What does that even mean, court me?”

“Some bullshit I picked up from Blackwall,” Varric said, laying down on his side, head propped up by his elbow. “Thought I’d try something new.”

She put her hand on his chest, running her fingers through the hair. With the sun pouring through the window, Marta was warm and comfortable, even laying naked in bed. She’d be hard pressed to remember a time when she felt more content than she did right now. “I think you’re supposed to court me before we have sex.”

“Eh, I’m not really good at following directions,” Varric said, his free hand drawing lazy circles on her breasts. “How do you think I got wound up with all of this Inquisition business anyway?”

He had a point. “Well, I don’t need to be courted. You’ve already got me in bed. But…” Marta ignored the sudden flash of discomfort in her marked hand. That had been happening more and more lately, and getting harder to ignore. “If you were to court a humble ex-member of the Carta, what would be involved?”

“I’m told flowers and bad poetry are involved,” Varric said, sounding somewhat solemn.

“Did you send me those flowers last week?” Marta asked, a puzzle finding its last piece.

“Depends. Did you like them? Because if you did, I absolutely sent them,” Varric said with grin. “Now, the bad poetry will be easier than you think. I can write novels any day of the week. Poetry?” He shuddered, but from the thought of writing poetry or the way she slid her nails down his chest, Marta didn’t know. “How’s this? I’ll write you one poem, on condition that we burn the only copy after it’s been read.”

Marta held out her hand. “Deal,” she said and they shook on the agreement. “There has to be something more than just flowers and poetry.”

“Blackwall stood watch or some nonsense over Josephine, but you don’t need that,” Varric said, sliding his hand across her belly to rest on her hip. Marta was half-tempted to move his hand back to her breasts, but stopped when he starting running the pads of his finger tips up and down the top of her thigh.

“Damn right I don’t,” Marta said seriously. “I’d like to see anyone try to mess with me. I don’t need my hammer to hurt someone.”

“And that is exactly why I love-”

They both froze at the word. Marta took a breath, trying to figure out how he could possibly say that word so soon and mean it. Turning to her side, she faced him, placing a hand on his cheek.

Varric didn’t meet her eye. “Look,” he said just as the moment crossed into awkward. “I know things just started between us a couple of days ago. But I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

“You mean it, then?” Marta asked, wondering if there was a limit to how much happiness one person could have. She had managed to escape the Carta. Corypheus was dead. And now Varric Tethras had just told her he _loved_ her. Surely something would need to balance things out. But not today.

He nodded, letting out a breath. “I don’t expect you to say it back, not yet. But some-”

Marta kissed him, pressing herself to him as close as she could. When they parted, she said, “I love you, too.”

How could she not? For almost two years he had fought by her side. She could tell him anything, and he always managed to understand, especially when she spoke of the dark side of the Carta. And somehow, no matter whether it was on the road or in Skyhold, Varric always managed to find a way to make her laugh.

He blinked, finally looking her in the eye. “You’ve done the impossible,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know what to say.”

Marta turned to lay on her back, pulling Varric on top of her. “Then let’s not talk.”


	12. Josephine/Cadash: You Think You're Funny?

“You think you’re funny?”

Iske watched Josephine pace her quarters. She had known this conversation was coming, known since Josephine had stormed into the Herald’s Rest soaking wet. Didn’t make it any easier, though.

“It was just a prank-”

“What if I had been with an important delegation? Or carrying parchments that could not be replaced? Or what if-”

“Of course I checked your schedule,” Iske said, flopping onto the ridiculously large sofa. She might love the woman, but Iske would never understand why Josephine furnished a dwarf’s bedroom with human size furniture. “If you had anything planned that afternoon, I would have stalled Sera. But it was going to happen, one way or another. You know how determined she is.”

Josephine sniffed, which Iske decided to interpret as a yes. But Josephine still pouted a bit, and Iske knew it would be up to her to mollify her lover’s feelings.

“Come here,” she said softly. Josephine stopped pacing and stood in front of the fireplace, her chin raised. Well, it was a start. “Please?” Josephine crossed her arms over her chest and looked out the window. Iske sighed, knowing she needed a different tactic. “Pouting doesn’t become you, love.”

That did the trick. Josephine turned to face her at once. “I am not pouting. I do not pout.”

“Then come here,” Iske implored.

This time, Josephine listened and walked over to the couch, not meeting Iske’s eye. When she stood in front of the couch, Iske patted her lap. An invitation.

“I am too big for your lap,” Josephine muttered.

“Nonsense,” Iske said, ignoring the obvious that it was probably true. She reached out for Josephine’s hand, amazed as always how smooth it was compared to her own rough skin and calloused fingers.

Josephine made no resistance as Iske pulled her down onto her lap. Though Iske did notice that her lover kept her feet on the floor, probably trying to be considerate, not putting her full weight on her. It was those little touches that made Iske love her so much.

“You can be very trying sometimes,” Josephine said. The words sounded a bit harsh, but there was a smile on Josephine’s lips as she ran her fingers through Iske’s hair, so she couldn’t complain too much. “I don’t know how I put up with you.”

“I thought it was because of my criminal past,” Iske said, leaning her head against Josephine’s shoulder. “I’m told it makes me dangerous and full of mystery.”

Josephine let out a laugh, a bright, clear sound, that made Iske’s heart ache in that good sort of way that had been happening more and more lately. “This coming from the woman who cried when you met a litter of mabari puppies,” she said, turning so her knees were on the couch, straddling Iske’s lap. “Oh so dangerous.”

“That better stay our secret,” Iske said with a grin as she reached around and squeezed Josephine’s ass, who gave a hint of a squeal as she pushed up against her. “I have a reputation to protect.”

“Resorting to threats?” Josephine said, a hand in front of her mouth hiding her smile. “Really, Inquisitor, I thought you better than that.

Iske lifted her head high so she could give Josephine a kiss. Sort and slow and full of promise. “So threats didn’t work, huh?” She started to unbuckle Josephine’s leather belt. “How about bribery?”

Biting her lower lip, Josephine said, her voice teasing, “My silence for sexual favors?”

“Willing to negotiate?” Iske asked as she untied the knot in Josephine’s sash. The woman wore far too many layers sometimes.”

Josephine kissed her hard, then, and started to unbutton the many buttons on Iske’s tunic. “I believe we’ll be able to come to an accord.”


	13. Sera/Adaar - You Think You're Funny

“You think you’re funny, yeah? The mighty quizzie on her throne.” 

Pearth hadn’t even heard Sera come up the stairs to her chambers. She just suddenly was there. A good enough trait for a rogue, but not so good for an apparently annoyed girlfriend. 

Well, Sera wasn’t the only one annoyed. It just so happened that they were annoyed at different things. Pearth was annoyed that after asking at least three times that she could remember, she still didn’t have a place in her own room where she could comfortably do paperwork. 

The desk was out of the question. It was here when the Inquisition had arrived and built for an elf. The sofa was uncomfortable, because  _ it _ was made for humans, and a qunari simply didn’t fit. That left the bed, where she sat cross-legged and her shoulders hunched over a writing board and quill meant for human hands. After more than an hour of going over reports, Pearth’s back was  _ killing _ her. 

Pearth sighed and moved her writing desk from her lap, knowing she wouldn’t get any more work done until Sera had said her piece. “I take it you didn’t approve of my judgement this morning.” 

The question of Thom Rainier was a delicate one. Good of a warrior as he was, the man wasn’t worth starting a war with Orlais. The fact that Sera considered him her best friend in the world complicated things. Greatly. 

Sera looked away and hopped up on the sofa, balancing on the back. Pearth willed herself not to say anything. She  _ hated _ when Sera did that, sitting right on the edge of the railing. One false move and she could go tumbling back. If anything happened to her…

“Fine, take away my fun,” Sera said, flopping down on the sofa, arms crossed. “Your face goes all crinkly when you worry.” 

“Thank you,” Pearth said, not giving a damn about her crinkly face. She scooted to the side of the bed so she could look at Sera. “You want to talk about it?”

“Beardy’s old,” Sera said, her voice quiet. “I love him, but he’s old as balls, right? What if the Joining…” She brought her knees to his chest and wrapped her arms around them tight. “Finally found a place where we can belong and now you’re sending him away.” 

Pearth didn’t make the decision lightly, not at all. From as far as she could tell, there were two choices. Pardon him or have him join the Wardens. Pardoning him didn’t make sense. Not to her. She didn’t want the rest of Thedas to think the Inquisition believed themselves above other countries. But if he joined the Wardens, then all other claims to him dissolved. Rainier could have a fresh start. After Corypheus was defeated, of course. 

“He’s not going anywhere until Corypheus is defeated,” Pearth said. She stood up and in three steps, made it over to the sofa. Sera reached out for her hand immediately. She was always doing that, wanting to hold hands or sit in Pearth’s lap when they were near each other. And Pearth couldn’t say she minded. 

“Better than nothing,” Sera said, tugging on Pearth’s hand. Peath didn’t need to be asked twice, so she sat down on the sofa, putting her arm around Sera’s shoulders. 

“If it helps,” Pearth said, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

A flicker of a smile crossed Sera’s lips. “No secrets you’re hiding? Not a dwarf in disguise? Member of the Venatori?”

There it was, Pearth realized. The real issue. Sera was hurt by Rainer and wanted to take it out on her. Well, the beauty of being a qunari was that she had broad shoulders. She could take any anger Sera threw at her easily. Better at her than at Rainier. The man had been through enough for now. 

“I don’t think I could keep secrets from my girl if I wanted,” Pearth said. 

Sera turned and threw a leg over so she was straddling Pearth’s hips. “Your girl, eh? Like the sound of that.” 

“Me, too,” Pearth said, squeezing Sera’s ass. 

She let out a laugh. “Didn’t come up here for a cuddle,” Sera said, kissing Pearth’s neck. “Wanted to yell a bit. But I think I’m yelled out now.” 

“So let’s have a cuddle?” Pearth asked, already unlacing Sera’s tunic. 

Sera nodded. “Much better than yelling. Unless it’s the good type of yelling, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Pearth agreed, all thoughts of the paperwork on her bed disappearing in an instant. 


	14. Cassandra/Cadash - You're a Terrible Cook

“You’re a terrible cook,” Cassandra said, scrunching up her nose as she tried to swallow the stew he had made for supper. Perhaps that was unkind. No, it was most certainly unkind. 

Fredgar tilted his head as he stared into the campfire. They had stopped at an Inquisition camp in Crestwood for the night. Tomorrow they would meet up with Hawke and her contact. And Cassandra could admit to herself she was nervous. 

She had built up so many scenarios in her head about meeting Hawke for the first time. Having delved into the woman’s past like she had, gave Cassandra certain expectation. Expectations no living person could ever meet. Yet at the same time, she desperately didn’t want to be disappointed tomorrow. 

So apparently Cassandra decided to take it out on Fredgar. Fredgar, who had done nothing but offer to make supper while she cleaned her gear. Fredgar, who seemed to be flirting more and more often lately. Enough that soon she might need to say something, lest hopes were raised. Hers or his, she could not say. 

“A terrible cook, huh?” Fredgar repeated slowly. He looked down at his bowl of stew and swirled his spoon around in the broth. 

Oh Maker, how did she get here? How did she come to the point where she worried about hurting this dwarf’s feelings? “I could have phrased that more politely…” She trailed off, thinking. Cassandra hated that sort of posturing. It reminded her of her childhood, always needing to be polite and  _ noble. _ She hated being noble. “No, I was right the first time. This is truly awful stew.” 

Fredgar let out a laugh and slapped his knee. Cassandra’s stomach gave a strange little ache, seeing him smile and laugh like that. Well, he was the Inquisitor. The small diversion was probably most welcome. The face that  _ she _ caused that smile should matter not at all. 

Yet how it did. 

“So I take it you didn’t like my secret ingredient?” Fredgar asked, arching a brow. 

“If this is like when Sera-”

Fredgar waved his hand. “Of course not. I don’t pull childish pranks like that,” he said. “This is better. When we were down in Valammar, I found an entire pouch full of moss, direct from Orzammar. I’ve been waiting to use it for something special.”

“Moss.” 

“It’s an dwarven delicacy,” Fredgar said. “Haven’t been able to find any since we made it to Skyhold. I really need to talk to the quartermaster about setting up trade with Orzammar.” 

Cassandra lifted a spoonful of stew. There, clear as day, was the moss. “Moss.” 

“I take it you don’t like it,” Fredgar said with a sigh. “I guess it’s an acquired taste.” He reached out with his free hand. “Here, I won’t let your bowl go to waste.” 

“What am I supposed to eat?” she asked, already handing him the bowl. Hardtack for supper wouldn’t be the end of the world, she supposed. 

“Go talk to Varric. He saw the moss and decided to figure out something else. Rabbit, I think,” Fredgar said. “I’m sure if you ask nicely, he’ll share.” 

Cassandra stood, stretching her arms over her head. The rain had stopped falling for a bit, though the clouds looked like it could start up again at any moment. But for now, she could enjoy just being out of her tent, even if she did have to scrounge up something new for supper. 

As she walked past Fredgar, he said, “You know, Seeker, I was just trying to give you a taste of my culture.” 

She stopped walking and turned towards him. Surely it would be good to learn more about Fredgar’s culture. He might be a surface dwarf, but even surface dwarves kept plenty of things about from underground. 

And that was what friends, did, wasn’t it? They shared things about themselves. Cassandra realized then that she considered Fredgar to be a friend. A very good one, in fact. 

“Perhaps when we get back to Skyhold, I’ll share some of my spices from Navarra,” Cassandra said. She normally hoarded them zealously, but somehow she didn’t mind the idea of sharing them with Fredgar. In fact, she found herself looking forward to the meal they would share. 

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot,” Fredgar said, bringing up his bowl of stew in a toast. “Now go grab yourself some rabbit before Varric eats it all.” 

Cassandra started walking towards Varric, thankful that the dusk would hide the reddening of her cheeks. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Things Left Behind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324596) by [proprioception (sacrificethemtothesquid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrificethemtothesquid/pseuds/proprioception)




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